Yeah you just have to be true to yourself, know where you come

Host: The evening sky was painted with crimson and amber, the sun a smoldering ember over the hills. A quiet wind whispered through the eucalyptus trees, carrying the scent of earth and smoke. Jack and Jeeny sat by a campfire on a clifftop, overlooking a valley that stretched endlessly — a landscape both ancient and alive. The crackling fire was the only sound, aside from the distant cry of a kookaburra breaking the silence.

Jack was staring into the flames, a beer can half-emptied beside him. His face, rough and sharpened by light, was reflective, even tired. Jeeny, her knees pulled close, watched the sky change colors, her eyes soft with memory.

Jack: “Adam Goodes said once — ‘You just have to be true to yourself, know where you come from, and make sure your relationships with family back home are strong.’ I get the sentiment, but isn’t that a bit… old-fashioned? In this world, people move, adapt, reinvent. You can’t stay tied to your past forever.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about staying there, Jack. Maybe it’s about remembering it — carrying it with you like a heartbeat, not a chain. When you forget where you come from, you start to lose who you are.”

Host: The firelight flickered, casting their faces in shades of gold and shadow. The wind shifted, blowing sparks into the darkness, where they vanished like brief souls. Jack tilted his head, his eyes narrowing in thought.

Jack: “But what if where you come from isn’t something worth remembering? Some of us grow up in broken homes, failed towns, or with ghosts we’d rather forget. Why should we keep looking back when the future is the only way forward?”

Jeeny: “Because even pain can teach you who you are. You can’t heal by erasing your roots. Adam Goodes knew what that meant — being Aboriginal, being told he didn’t belong, and still choosing to stand tall in that heritage. He wasn’t saying you have to stay; he was saying you have to honor.”

Host: The fire crackled louder, a burst of flame lighting Jeeny’s face, her eyes burning with conviction. Jack leaned back, hands behind his head, his breath visible in the cooling air.

Jack: “Honor can be romanticized, Jeeny. But sometimes it’s a burden. You think of your ancestors, your culture, your family, and suddenly you’re responsible for more than your own life. It’s like trying to run with a rope still tied to your past.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that rope isn’t meant to hold you back — it’s meant to anchor you. To keep you from drifting into the kind of emptiness that comes when you have everything, but belong nowhere.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the camp, rustling the trees and sending ash into the air. The sky had darkened now, stars beginning to emerge, each one a tiny ember in the infinite black.

Jack: “I’ve spent my whole life trying to build something that’s mine — not my father’s, not my hometown’s, mine. If I kept looking back, I’d never have left that small town, never have made anything of myself. Sometimes you have to cut the ties to breathe.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every time you succeed, who do you call first? Who do you wish could see it? That’s the paradox, Jack — we run to find ourselves, and when we do, we turn back to see who’s watching.”

Host: The fire had died down, now only embers, glowing softly like the last light of a memory. Jeeny’s voice was gentle, but her words carried a weight that hung between them.

Jack: “You sound like my mother. She used to say, ‘If you forget your roots, your wings will stop working.’ I never knew what that meant until I left. But… maybe she was wrong. Maybe the wings only grow when you stop looking down.”

Jeeny: “She wasn’t wrong, Jack. She was warning you. Wings without roots don’t fly — they float. They drift with every wind, every trend, every promise of something new. Look at people today — so connected, yet so lost. They know their Instagram, not their history.”

Host: The sound of a distant river rose in the silence, its current steady, endless, like time itself. The flames reflected in Jack’s eyes, shifting from defiance to thoughtfulness.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. But being ‘true to yourself’ — that’s such a vague idea. Who’s that ‘self,’ anyway? The child you were? The adult you’ve become? Or the person the world keeps trying to make you into?”

Jeeny: “It’s the part that doesn’t change. The voice inside that remembers the taste of home, the sound of your father’s laughter, the smell of your mother’s cooking. You can travel the whole world, build empires, chase fame — but that voice always calls you back. That’s what Goodes meant. That connection isn’t about geography; it’s about truth.”

Host: A shooting star streaked across the night, a silent line of fire that vanished before either could wish. Jeeny looked up, her eyes shimmering, while Jack watched the ground, his fingers twitching near the flames, as though searching for something he’d lost.

Jack: “Truth is complicated. Sometimes it’s easier to create yourself than to remember who you were. Adam Goodes had a foundation — a culture — something that belonged to him. Not all of us have that. Some of us come from nothing.”

Jeeny: “No one comes from nothing, Jack. Even silence is a kind of inheritance. You come from someone’s longing, someone’s hope, someone’s failure. That’s the truth. The moment you think you come from nothing, you start to believe you owe nothing — to your past, to your people, even to yourself.”

Host: The wind had stilled now. The stars were brighter, unblinking, as if the sky itself were listening. The fire dropped into a gentle glow, its embers mirroring the stars above.

Jack: “You talk like home is something that never leaves. But for me, it’s a place that closed its doors a long time ago. I was the one who walked away, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And maybe they’re still waiting for you to knock.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft yet unyielding, like a string pulling at his heart. Jack’s shoulders slumped, his breath long, deep, weighted. For a moment, the only sound was the low crackle of dying embers.

Jack: “You know… I still keep my father’s watch. It doesn’t work anymore, but I can’t throw it away. I guess that’s my rope, huh?”

Jeeny: “It’s your root, Jack. The kind that doesn’t trap — it grounds. The kind that lets you stand, even when the world moves beneath you.”

Host: The first chill of night had settled, the fire now just a faint warmth against the vast cold. Jack looked at Jeeny, a small smile breaking the tension, fragile but real.

Jack: “So, being true to yourself means… what? Keeping that connection alive, even when the rest of the world forgets?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It means remembering who you were before the noise, before the expectations, before you started trying to prove anything. It means you can stand anywhere — on a podium, in a city, or beside a fire — and still know who’s inside your skin.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back slowly then, revealing the two as tiny figures beneath a sky alive with stars, the firelight a heartbeat in the darkness. Their silhouettes merged with the earth, as if the land itself listened and approved.

And as the night deepened, their truth became clear —
that to be true to oneself is not to escape one’s origin,
but to carry it gently, like a flame —
not to burn, but to remember.